Footprints Under the Window Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER I - Shots Offshore

  CHAPTER II - Night Prowler

  CHAPTER III - Missing Papers

  CHAPTER IV - Peril in the Air

  CHAPTER V - Suspect at Large

  CHAPTER VI - Waterfront Sleuthing

  CHAPTER VII - Reward or Bribe?

  CHAPTER VIII - Cobblewave Cove

  CHAPTER IX - Thief in the Crowd

  CHAPTER X - Discreet Intruder

  CHAPTER XI - A Secret Revealed

  CHAPTER XII - “Stranger” Sighted

  CHAPTER XIII - Ragged Caller

  CHAPTER XIV - Blind River

  CHAPTER XV - City of Silence

  CHAPTER XVI - The Gate of Doom

  CHAPTER XVII - Homestretch

  CHAPTER XVIII - A Sinister Meeting

  CHAPTER XIX - Ghost Ship

  CHAPTER XX - Countdown

  Footprints Under the Window

  A plot to steal a top-secret instrument vital to the United States space program poses a challenging case for Frank and Joe Hardy. The whereabouts of their famous detective father is a mystery, so Frank and Joe are on their own to foil the plotters.

  After rescuing a South American stowaway who mutters a cryptic warning about “Footprints,” then flees, the boys learn they are up against a ruthless espionage ring. The next day Frank and Joe discover that documents belonging to Mr. Hardy are missing, and, noting strange footprints under a window, they suspect the stowaway.

  The young detectives’ search for the diabolical mastermind of the “Footprints” spy ring takes them on a flight to a group of islands off the coast of South America. Here they risk the wrath of a cruel dictator, and also make a grisly discovery deep in the jungle.

  During a spine-chilling vigil in a cemetery, followed by entrapment in the flooded compartment of a wrecked ship, the courage and resourcefulness of the Hardys and their pal, Chet Morton, are tested to the utmost.

  Hardy Boys fans will find this exciting tale crammed with suspense, intrigue, and action.

  “Th-the tomb door! It’s opening!” Chet gasped

  Copyright © 1993, 1965, 1960, 1933 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset Group, New

  eISBN : 978-1-101-12758-2

  eISBN : 978-1-101-12758-2

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  CHAPTER I

  Shots Offshore

  “FRANK—I’ve never seen so many guards at Micro-Eye beforel And that steel wire fence is new. Think something is up?”

  Blond, seventeen-year-old Joe Hardy, at the convertible’s wheel, had stopped for a red light. His brother, dark-haired and a year older, peered out at Bayport’s sprawling photographic plant.

  “Must be a special project,” Frank suggested.

  The traffic light showed green and the Hardys’ car moved past the block-long complex of buildings. Three uniformed guards were inspecting a departing Corporated Laundries truck at the gate.

  Frank whistled. “Micro-Eye must be working on something that’s top secret,” he said. “I wonder if Dad knew about it before he left—” Frank broke off as the boys approached the rear of the main plant. A man was crouched on the outside of the fence. He was trying to cut through it with a pair of powerful shears!

  “Joe! Stop!”

  Joe instantly braked. Even before the car screeched to a halt alongside the curb, Frank had opened his door. He jumped out and sped toward the crouching figure. Joe swiftly followed.

  “Guards!” Frank shouted.

  Startled, the broad-nosed, stockily built man whirled to his feet, then glanced quickly back at the alerted guards. The next instant he hurled the shears directly at Frank.

  “Look out!” Joe yelled in horror.

  His brother ducked as the lethal blades spun crazily past, missing his head by inchesl Frank and Joe sprinted in pursuit of the fleeing man. A guard’s voice rang out.

  “Stop him!”

  But the fugitive was darting across the street, heedless of the heavy traffic. When the boys reached the other side, Joe spotted their quarry leaping into a black sedan a block away. It roared off in a cloud of gas fumes.

  “Did you get the license?” Frank panted.

  Joe shook his head. “There was another man at the wheel and the motor was running.”

  Three security guards ran up to the Hardys.

  “We certainly owe you boys our thanks,” a tall, round-faced officer said, holstering his pistol. “Confidentially, it’s internal security that seems to be our problem.”

  “You mean there’s a security leak at Micro-Eye?” Frank asked as the group walked back toward the main gate.

  “We have reason to think so,” a burly guard replied, “despite the careful screening and clearance of all plant workers.”

  Two other guards had already retrieved the wire cutters but admitted they probably had no fingerprints, since the man had worn gloves. At the Micro-Eye guardhouse Frank and Joe gave a detailed description of the escaped man, who had sideburns and a dark complexion.

  “He may be foreign-born,” Joe remarked.

  At this, the round-faced officer glanced at the other guards, then turned to the Hardys. “We already suspect that aliens who entered the country illegally are operating in this area. Your description may be a great help to us.”

  “You mean—spies?” Frank inquired.

  The officer nodded, but did not reveal any more details. He thanked the boys for their vigilance, then the Hardys returned to their car and headed homeward.

  “Spies!” Joe exclaimed. “Just our luck to let one get away! He had some nerve, trying to cut through the fence in broad daylight.”

  Frank grinned. “Maybe we can pick up another clue for Micro-Eye.”

  A sharp eye for clues came naturally to the brothers. They were sons of Bayport’s renowned private detective, Fenton Hardy, formerly of the New York police force. Joe was impetuous by nature, Frank more deliberate. Ever since solving the mystery of The Tower Treasure, they had helped their father track down criminals and proven their courage and abilities as independent sleuths. Recently they had faced a dangerous challenge in a case known as While the Clock Ticked.

  “Too bad Dad isn’t here,” Joe said. “He’d certainly be interested in what happened at Micro-Eye.”

  “Yes. His new case really must be hush-hush. He didn’t even leave an address.”

  The car turned into the drive of the Hardys’ attractive, tree-shaded house at the corner of High and Elm streets. The boys lugged two huge boxes of groceries into the kitchen.

  “Whew! I’ll be glad when Mother gets back!” Joe exclaimed. “We keep running out of everything.”

  Mrs. Hardy was away visiting relatives, and was expected to be gone for two weeks.

  “I wonder how Aunt Gertrude’s enjoying Rio,” Frank mused. Their peppery maiden aunt, Mr. Hardy’s sister, had been in South America since earlier in the summer.

  “Brazil will never be the same again,” Joe quipped, “but I can’t wait until she’s back. If I have to live through any more of your cooking—”

  Frank laughed, and went for the mail. He returned with a stack of envelopes. “Guess we can’t forward these to Dad.” He held out four letters addressed to their father.

  There was also a blue envelope for the boys. When Frank read the enclosed note, his hand flew to his head.

  “What’s the matter?” Joe asked in alarm.

  “It’s from Aunt Gertrude! She says she’ll arrive in Bayport on the Dorado in eight days. This is postmarked eight days ago!”

  “Today!” Joe gr
oaned. “And this place looks as if a hurricane hit it!”

  Frank phoned the North Lines office and learned that the Dorado, a freighter, was due to dock early that evening. “Joe! The dishes and beds! Where’s the furniture polish? If Aunty finds the house in this shape, we’ll really get a lecture!”

  The whisk of brooms, the whirring of the vacuum, and the clang of pots and pans filled the air as the boys feverishly cleaned the house from attic to basement.

  “Well, that should do it.” Frank sighed as the exhausted pair sat down to a light supper. But suddenly Joe jumped up.

  “The laundry! There must be a mountain of it upstairs in the hall closet!”

  The boys charged up the stairs and gathered the crumpled garments and linen. While Joe tied it up, Frank checked his father’s closet and removed two pair of slacks which needed cleaning. As he did so, Frank noticed some papers bulging from the inside pocket of one of Mr. Hardy’s suit coats.

  “Looks as if Dad forgot these,” he called. “Hope they weren’t important. Say, we’ve only ten minutes before the cleaner closes!”

  “We can go from there to the pier.”

  Frank drove into town and parked in front of Corporated Laundries’ large new shop which handled dry cleaning.

  As Joe ran in with the bundle, a burly, middle-aged man pushed ahead of him to the counter.

  “I want these shirts done special. Charge it to my account,” he announced loudly.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. North!” said the clerk, a thin, man with bushy eyebrows. But the overbearing customer had already stalked outside. Joe left his bundle, then rejoined Frank.

  “Some nerve!” Joe growled. “Orrin North just elbowed me out of the way in there,” he told his brother as they headed toward the Bayport waterfront. “Even if he does own a shipping line, he could use some manners!”

  “They say his passenger business isn’t doing so well these days,” Frank said. Both boys knew North as a prominent Bayport resident who prided himself on being a successful man.

  When the Hardys reached the waterfront, Frank parked at the North Lines pier where the Dorado would dock. The customs area bustled with officials. At several piers the boys noticed watchful plainclothesmen.

  “There must be something to what that Micro-Eye guard said about illegal immigrants,” Joe observed.

  “A person would have to be pretty clever to get through all these precautions,” Frank said. He turned to a customs inspector and learned that the Dorado was expected in an hour. The man added that the ship was taking very few passengers these days.

  “I guess Aunt Gertrude was lucky,” Joe said. “What say we take a spin in the Sleuth? We can watch the Dorado coming in and still be back here by the time she docks!”

  “Good idea!”

  In minutes the brothers reached the boathouse where their sleek craft was berthed. Frank started the motor and pulled out into the sunset-golden waters of Barmet Bay.

  Darkness was falling by the time they headed down the coast. Soon Frank sighted the big hulk of an approaching vessel, plying lazily through the long swells. Joe grabbed the binoculars.

  “She’s the Dorado all right. Maybe we can spot Aunt Gertrude on board.”

  Frank circled nearer the lighted ship, and followed a parallel course, hugging the coast. The boys looked in vain for the tall, straight figure of their aunt. Above the deck a ghostly plume of smoke curled up into the night sky.

  “She may still be below,” Frank began. “If—”

  Crack! Crack!

  “Joe! Those sounded like pistol shots!”

  “From the Dorado! Look, there’s a commotion at the stern!”

  The boys saw several men scuffling at the fantail of the freighter. The next instant a figure leaped over the rail and plunged into the dark waters!

  Instinctively Frank sent the Sleuth speeding to the rescue. Soon Joe spotted a bobbing form, and a few minutes later pulled a gasping, sputtering man aboard.

  Slender and dark-complexioned, with a thin mustache, he was dressed in a crewman’s blue uniform. A quick examination showed no wounds, but the stranger seemed too exhausted to speak. The boys made him comfortable and Frank sped past the Dorado and in the direction of Barmet Bay.

  Joe shouted above the noise of the engine, “I wonder who he is and what all the excitement was about.”

  “Beats me. But we’ll have to contact authorities on shore pronto,” Frank said worriedly. “Let’s just hope Aunt Gertrude’s all right!”

  Frank sent the Sleuth speeding to the rescue

  Instead of going to their own boathouse, he pulled into the end of the public dock. The crewman revived, and the boys helped him out of the Sleuth.

  Frank said, “I’m Frank Hardy and this is my brother Joe. We don’t know what—”

  “Hardy—you said—Hardy?” The man, speaking broken English, was plainly startled.

  Before he could say more, a stranger strode briskly up to the trio. He was short and bald, and he wore a badge on the lapel of his black raincoat. He grasped the crewman’s arm and snapped:

  “The Dorado radioed us about you. I’m an immigration officer. Come along! You kids can beat it now.”

  Suddenly the crewman shook loose and his fist rocketed against the stranger’s jaw! The officer staggered back with a grunt.

  Frank grabbed at the sailor, but the man dodged and ran, turning only for a fraction of a second to hiss, “Footprints will get—”

  He raced off the dock onto the road and was swallowed up in the darkness.

  CHAPTER II

  Night Prowler

  “AFTER him!” Frank shouted.

  He and Joe ran from the dock and down the road in pursuit of the crewman. They heard footsteps pounding rapidly ahead, then Joe saw a shadow dart between two small bay-front buildings.

  “There—to the right!”

  The Hardys dashed through back lots and a deserted alley. But the man had vanished. Finally Frank and Joe gave up the chase and hastened back to the docks. “We’d better see if that immigration officer is hurt,” Frank said.

  When they reached the dock, there was no sign of the short man with the badge.

  “Maybe he went to alert his office that the man escaped,” Joe said.

  “If he was from the immigration office,” Frank cut in. “There was something phony about his telling us to ‘beat it.’ ”

  Joe agreed. “At any rate, we’ll report this.”

  “ ‘Footprints’!” Frank mused, recalling the crewman’s strange words. “What could that mean? And whom are they going to ‘get’—us?”

  Joe shook his head. “That man seemed to know our last name! Where did he find out? Did you notice his accent? Sounded like South American Spanish.”

  The Hardys hurried to the customs office and gave a detailed account of the recent events. The man in charge took down the information. When Frank described the bald man who had claimed to be immigration officer, the customs man made a quick telephone call. He hung up, puzzled.

  “No one like that works for Immigration,” he said. “We’ll look into this. Thanks, boys.”

  The Hardys hurried to the pier where the Dorado had just docked. Only a handful of passengers debarked from the gangway, but Miss Hardy was not among them. Worried, Frank and Joe spoke with a uniformed customs inspector.

  The official consulted a short list of passengers. “We have no such person listed.”

  Frank and Joe exchanged dumfounded glances. “Are you sure there’s no mistake? We’re expecting our aunt,” Frank insisted. Just then a heavy-set man wearing a blue cap approached.

  “Boys, here’s the Dorado’s skipper—Captain Burne. You can ask him.”

  The newcomer seemed to be distressed as he hurried up to the inspector.

  “Mr. Clark, we have a missing stowaway thief to report!” the captain announced. “We tried to stop him but he jumped overboard, and—”

  “We picked him up but he got away again,” Joe put in quickly. He and Frank i
ntroduced themselves, then related their experience.

  The captain stared in surprise at the boys.

  “Captain,” said Frank, “isn’t there a Miss Gertrude Hardy on your ship—from Rio de Janeiro? She’s our aunt, and wrote us she’d arrive tonight on the Dorado.”

  Burne shook his head. “Nobody by that name aboard. Only nine passengers this trip—the last time we’ll take on passengers.”

  “Maybe your aunt decided to stay longer in Rio,” Mr. Clark suggested. “Don’t worry, boys.”

  “I guess she must have changed her mind,” Joe said, relieved that their aunt had not been exposed to the shooting incident. The Hardys now asked the captain about the escaped stowaway.

  “Is he really a thief?” Frank asked.

  “You bet he is!” Burne fumed. “Stole a crew uniform, cleaned out a cashbox in my office, then shot at us when we went after him. He must have sneaked aboard in Cayenne.” The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Did you boys get any leads on where he went?”

  “No.” Frank signaled Joe with a glance not to mention the stowaway’s peculiar warning to them about “footprints.”

  The captain shrugged. “Well, at least you got descriptions of him and that phony immigration officer. If you two get any clues, will you inform Mr. North’s office?”

  “We’ll keep our eyes open,” Frank promised.

  Still a bit uneasy about Miss Hardy, the brothers returned the Sleuth to their boathouse, then drove home.

  “Aunt Gertrude must be having a ball,” Joe ventured.

  Frank laughed wryly. “All that housecleaning for nothingl But,” he went on, “this stowaway thief puzzles me. Why was he so startled at hearing our name? I think we’d better find out more about it before we mention ‘footprints’ to anybody.”

  The boys decided to try getting word to their father by phoning Sam Radley. Sam was an ace detective and assistant to Fenton Hardy.

  “I’ll do my best to contact him, Frank,” Sam promised. “Sounds very strange. Keep me posted.”

  After a snack of milk and crackers, the brothers went to bed. A fresh summer breeze came through the window of their second-floor room in the quiet house.